


it's everything (about you)

by preromantics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU involving baseball and mystery sandwiches. / <i>"It's different every time," Posey answers. "The point is Dylan makes a gross combination of stuff that you have to like, force yourself to eat, but then when you do it's fucking delicious. Like magic."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	it's everything (about you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wayfaringwaif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfaringwaif/gifts).



"What if I tried out for baseball this summer?" Posey asks, staring out at the fields across the street.

Dylan rolls his eyes and edges in close enough that he can forcibly lift Posey's hands from the meat slicer.

"One," he says, "I think you need to have both your hands if you want to play baseball."

"Come on, I was fine," Posey says, but switches over to cutting plastic wrap anyway.

"I don't really feel like the trauma this morning," Dylan says.

Sliding the cutter back and forth is monotonous and Dylan gets distracted from it too when he's doing a whole block, finds himself looking out on the fields as well. There's a game later right after his shift ends, which means his last hour is going to be absolute hell. He has band practice to look forward to afterward, though, and (hopefully winning) the bet pool to how many minutes of garage playing it'll take for Ms. Moser next door to Posey's to come out and yell at them.

"So, do you think I should?" Posey asks, some time later, when Dylan is down to the uneven pieces at the very end of the block.

"Should what?" Dylan shuts off the slicer and carries everything over to where Posey is standing with a stack of plastic wrap next to the scale.

"Try out next summer! For baseball, dude. I was pretty good in little league." Posey, bless him, looks excited.

"I think they drug test pretty often," Dylan says, with a little snort picturing Posey playing little league, hair sticking out of the bottom of his over-sized helmet in twenty different directions. Dylan's seen pictures.

"Oh," Posey says, frowning. "I didn't think about that. They're like, legit, right? I guess they have to."

Dylan shrugs; he follows the Mets, not the city minor leagues. When he looks out of the front windows again he catches a white uniform and nudges Posey with his shoulder. "Ask this guy, he's a player," Dylan says.

"What? Ask him if he does drugs?"

The guy comes in before Dylan can give an answer to that and the bell on the door chimes merrily.

The time between a customer entering the deli and getting to the counter is always the most awkward to Dylan. He doesn't want to like, shout a greeting and make them feel pressured into ordering something right away but he doesn't want to get called out as having shitty customer service skills, either, and ignore them until they're making a point of being ready to order.

When Posey said he should come work at the deli, Dylan was unprepared for the stress he'd have on a daily basis: making sure Posey didn't cut off his own hands when they worked together, worrying about it even when they weren't on the same shift -- where would their band get another guitar player? -- worrying about how many feet to the counter is acceptable greeting distance, ect.

"Hey," Dylan calls, when the baseball guy is about four feet from the counter, leaning back on his heels to look at the menu on the wall.

"Hi," baseball guy says, with a quick and disarming sort of smile aimed at Dylan in the second it takes him to look down and then back at the menu.

Dylan stares, just because he can't, now that he's noticed. Baseball guy is in uniform, probably mid-practice, with a dirt stain up the side of one thick thigh from a slide. His uniform fits exceptionally well, which Dylan definitely, definitely notices. His face shouldn't work, either, with that grin and all the strong features Dylan can see, but oh man, it does.

Posey elbows him in the ribs and Dylan almost falls forward against the counter.

"You play for the city team, right?" Posey asks.

The guy gestures down at his clothes and makes a face. "Actually I just robbed a bank," he says. "Perfect disguise, isn't it?"

 _Attractive baseball guy got jokes_ , Dylan thinks. Or, by the way Posey jabs him in the ribs again and baseball guy stares at him with both eyebrows up, he actually says out loud. Dylan rubs the back of his neck.

"Tyler," baseball guy says, and Posey's head snaps up. "My name is actually Tyler."

"Me too, dude," Posey says, which makes baseball-Tyler squint at him.

"His name is also Tyler," Dylan translates. "And, uh, sorry."

"It's fine," Tyler says, and grins again, damn.

Dylan's face feels warm, which is just stupid genetics, but he steps closer to the counter anyway, refusing to be embarrassed. "What can I get you?"

After he leaves, Dylan lets his head hit the glass door of the cooler.

"Not your best moment," Posey says.

"He probably won't be back," Dylan agrees.

"Hate to see you go, love to see you walk away," Posey sing-songs, exaggerating the vowels and flapping his hands around Dylan's face.

-

Dylan definitely doesn't expect Tyler to come back to the deli, blurting aside. He's pretty sure the players get free food during practice, which is why none of them ever come to the deli right across the street.

He comes back the next day, though, when Dylan is a half hour away from being done with his shift. He's looking forward to maybe finishing a paper for school and taking a nap before practice, and also getting away from Posey's current overly-caffeinated state.

Posey's just clocked out for lunch when Dylan looks up at door after the bells go off. Tyler walks in looking almost the same as before, his uniform stained in different places and his face shining a little with sweat.

Posey, who doesn't notice the internal crisis Dylan is definitely having while trying to figure out how to look too busy to stare, jumps over the counter and presses his face against the glass of the deli case. "Dude, Dylan, make me one of your specialties," he says.

"Specialties?" Tyler asks from behind.

Posey spins around, startled. "Hey, it's baseball guy!"

"Tyler," Tyler offers, as a reminder.

"Yeah," Posey says enthusiastically, turning back to Dylan. "See, you said he'd never come back, but I was right."

"Ouch," Tyler says. "No faith."

He seems to be in a good mood, maybe endorphins or something, based on the sweat at his temples that Dylan can't stop staring at.

"I was pretty creepy," Dylan says. "I didn't think --"

Tyler shakes his head, cuts Dylan off. "You were fine," he says, with this stupid little curve of one side of his mouth that makes Dylan feel stupid. "Can I get a Dylan-specialty sub, too?"

"No," Dylan says, automatically, and then feels like a dick. "Not no because you're you or anything, just, I don't think you'd like one."

"Anything's better than the chili dogs they give us across the street," Tyler says with a shrug. "Seriously, anything."

"Make him one," Posey says. "They're super awesome. Dylan is like, a sandwich genius. He could work for Subway or something, designing sandwiches."

"I appreciate how high your dreams for me are," Dylan says. "Thanks."

"What do you put in your special sub?" Tyler asks.

"It's different every time," Posey answers for him. "The point is Dylan makes a gross combination of stuff that you have to like, force yourself to eat, but then when you do it's fucking delicious. Like magic."

"You seriously don't have to," Dylan says, even though he's slicing two sub rolls lengthwise. "Sometimes I misjudge and it's actually pretty gross."

Tyler shrugs, leans casually against the counter next to Posey. "I'll take my chances," he says.

Dylan makes both subs at once, but makes Tyler's at least less disgusting looking than Posey's.

"What do I owe you?" Tyler asks, when Dylan finishes and tosses Posey his half-assedly wrapped sub. He takes more time wrapping Tyler's.

Dylan shakes his head and passes the wrapped sub over the counter. "If you like it, it's on the house. For bravery, or whatever."

"That seems a little backwards," Tyler says, but takes the sub anyway and tucks it under his arm. "Thanks, though. I'd stay and eat, but I have to get back to practice. If I don't like it, I'll let you know later."

"I leave in fifteen minutes," Dylan says, inexplicably a little disappointed even though he can't wait to get away.

"Don't forget band practice," Posey calls around a messy mouthful. "I'm gonna call you and wake you up."

"You're in a band?" Tyler asks, and Dylan snorts.

"We suck," he says, which is not entirely true; they're all good at playing and Posey sings pretty well, though not as good as their last lead singer.

"Hey, that's not true. We're fucking awesome," Posey says.

"Conflicting," Tyler says, edging toward the door and looking amused. "I have to run."

"Good," Dylan says, relieved to not have to talk about the band to Tyler, though usually he's happy to tell everyone who comes in about it.

Tyler makes a weird face at him, halfway out the door, and Dylan groans.

"Not, like, good you're leaving," he calls. "Kind of like that, actually, but not in whatever way you're thinking. If you're even thinking anything."

"I never use brain," Tyler says, in a voice pitched hilariously low, and he scratches his head like a caveman as the glass door shuts behind him.

Dylan presses his lips together and tries not to look like he's laughing.

"I like him," Posey says, around more sandwich.

"Yeah," Dylan agrees, watching through the glass as Tyler jogs across the street and back to the fields. "He's alright."

Posey throws a hard bit of the heel of his sub at Dylan's head.

-

Tyler comes in two days later while Dylan is working and Dylan is mostly prepared this time. If only because he's been glancing out the window since noon and happened to catch Tyler jogging across the street 45 minutes after he started keeping watch.

He jogs right up to the door, which is just unfair and distracting. He says as much to Posey under his breath and is gratified when he looks over and sees Posey watching, too, not paying any attention to the provolone he's slicing.

"Watch your hands," he says to Posey as the door opens with its bells clinking together.

"Hey," Tyler greets when he walks in all the way.

Dylan appreciates anyone who solves his how-many-feet-to-the-counter greeting dilemma by saying something first at the door.

"Hey," he calls back, though he sounds way less casual about it, which is momentarily embarrassing.

"So," Tyler says, approaching the counter.

He's sweating again, skin tan and warm from the sun, and Dylan tries not to notice at all, looks down at where Tyler stops and rests his hands near the register with an absent finger drum, and that's not any better at all. "So, what?"

"So," Tyler repeats. "Your special sub kind of changed my life."

"Yeah?" Dylan asks, feeling pretty pleased with the praise. Only Posey's ever really had one of his concoctions, which really just started out as a dare to see if Posey really would eat anything if he was hungry enough.

"It took me a good ten minutes to decide if I wanted to actually take a bite," Tyler says. "But now I'll never be able to go back to questionable chili dogs."

Dylan isn't sure what to say beyond that and ends up smiling sort of goofily until Posey yells and almost barrels into him, jumping away from the slicer. Dylan squeezes his eyes shut quickly out of habit and reaches blindly toward Posey.

"If it's going to be traumatic, let me know in advance," he says.

Posey shoves him. "I'm fine, just a close call."

"Do you guys have to be certified to use that?" Tyler asks.

When Dylan opens his eyes again, Tyler is looking at him, amused.

"Oh no," Dylan says. "They let pretty much anyone use it after a five minute instructional video. It's great. I constantly worry about having to clean Posey's fingers off the blade one day."

"He's just worried about losing the glue in our band sandwich," Posey says, waggling his fingers.

"You lost that metaphor," Dylan says.

"You need a map to find that metaphor," Tyler adds, deadpan, and god, Dylan really likes attractive-stupid-jokey-baseball-player-Tyler.

Dylan grins at him and knocks Posey back toward the slicer. "What can I get you today, Tyler?"

"A Dylan specialty, please," Tyler says.

Dylan slices open a sub roll with cheese baked over the top and tries not to look as pleased as he feels by the request.

-

The rest of the day goes pretty slowly after Tyler leaves, sub tucked under one arm again as he jogs back across the street.

He and Posey cut slices for the cooler and thaw out more dough from the freezer for the next couple hours; there's a baseball game tonight and the shop is bound to get crowded, thankfully right after Dylan gets off shift. (Which Posey keeps complaining about, but Dylan is one of the only people who doesn't mind opening the shop on the weekend whereas Posey likes to sleep, so it's his own fault for getting stuck with the baseball-crowd shifts.)

Dylan belatedly thinks he should've wished Tyler good luck at the game tonight when he came in for his sub. He doesn't even really know if Tyler plays or if he's just on the bench. He doesn't know much about Tyler at all and he wishes he did. It's not a new thought, he's wanted to know more about him since he wandered in the deli the first time, nameless and attractive and grinning in a way that shouldn't have worked on his face.

It's just the first time he's having the thought without immediately wanting to cover it up by thinking about something else.

"Hey," he says, catching swiss slices in his palm and stopping the blade before turning to Posey by the ovens. "How much are baseball tickets, do you think?"

Which is how Dylan ends up walking across the street after his shift, begging off the request to stay for two more hours of overtime on his first eight as the crowd starts up and his boss and shift relief come in. He pays the $7 ticket price at the gate from his cut of the tip jar, giving a winning smile when the lady frowns at all his change.

He's one of the first people into the small city stadium. It's open seating so he sits a few rows up from the field a few feet from the edge of the pitching fence.

Tyler is out with the team, tossing balls back and forth with another player. He's in a clean uniform and his back is facing Dylan: #16 Hoechlin.

Tyler notices him as more people start to come to sit on the risers. He waves with a little tilt of his head and Dylan feels like he's been caught staring, which he has, but probably no less than anyone else already seated.

He waves back and shrugs, feeling exactly like the sort of dorky deli counter kid he is, watching Tyler own the field for the entire game. His ass goes numb on the bench by the end of the last inning and he leaves in a rush, even though he's not sure why he's in such a hurry.

-

Dylan doesn't work again until Thursday. He checks the city league schedule for the day on his phone behind the counter when he comes in for his shift and sees there isn't a practice scheduled for today and tries not to feel weird about that.

Posey makes fun of him when he comes in an hour later, asks him how the game was and grins like Dylan doesn't know about the time Posey waited around Walmart for seven hours because he didn't know the shift schedule of the girl he had a crush on in their freshman year of college.

"You can always just make me a special sub," Posey says, knocking their shoulders together. "Just like old times."

"So, a week ago," Dylan says, and knocks back into him.

Tyler comes in around 2, while Dylan is head and shoulders deep into the hot counter case to switch out pans of mac and cheese. He notices Tyler through the convex glass, his body distorted (but, Dylan notes kind of sadly, no less attractive for the distortion). Dylan clears his throat and takes a second to be glad he didn't jump up and hit the glass out of surprise, but Posey takes that same moment to slap Dylan on the back and startle him with a loud, "Tyler's here, Dylan!", that ruins everything and makes Dylan hit his head on the top of the case and his back on the opening for the sliding door.

"Ow," he says, and slides backwards until he can stand up and rub his head.

Tyler is wearing regular clothes, dark jeans and a old-looking basic shirt and a Mets hat.

"Isn't that like, against team spirit?" he asks, gesturing toward Tyler's hat with the hand not currently rubbing his head.

Tyler tips his hat forward and shrugs. "I don't think anything could knock Mets pride out of me," he says.

"Dylan loves the Mets," Posey says in a weird voice from where he's hovering.

"Does he," Tyler says.

Dylan rolls his eyes in Posey's direction.

"I don't have practice today," Tyler says, even though it's fairly obvious. "My tastebuds couldn't stay away, though."

"I'll whip something up," Dylan says. "I'm maybe a little excited to see you eat one of these in person."

"It might take me a few minutes to convince myself it'll be worth it once it's in my mouth," Tyler says.

Posey chokes on a laugh and ducks behind the counter.

"Nice," Dylan says, kicking at Posey's shin. Tyler doesn't rush to cover for his heterosexuality or whatever, though, so Dylan ignores it and starts in on Tyler's sub.

"So," Tyler says a few minutes later, leaning against the counter to watch Dylan contemplate dressings. "What did you think of the game the other night?"

Dylan looks up, a little startled. People go to the city league games all the time as far as he knows. He knew Tyler knew he was there, but he wasn't really expecting the acknowledgement. Mostly he was torn between wanting it mentioned and dreading it if Tyler did show up. "It was good," he says. "You were good. Great, actually, like really fucking awesome."

He reaches for the squeze bottle of ranch dressing; that was maybe overkill.

Tyler grins at him from his lean against the counter. "Really?"

"I wasn't expecting it," Dylan says. He contemplates his sub creation instead of looking at Tyler's face. He's not completely certain he'll be able to fold this one over if he adds anything else.

"God, that looks disgusting," Posey says.

"I know," Dylan says, kind of delighted by it.

"I'm a actually little scared," Tyler says.

Dylan smiles at him and folds the sub over, setting it on one of the plastic baskets they use for people who eat at one of the four tables in the deli.

"I was thinking," Tyler says as he walks to a table. "You saw me play, it's only fair I get to see you play, too, right? Do you guys play anywhere with your band?"

Posey is not within kicking distance anymore, unfortunately, so he misses all the wordless signals Dylan tries to give in a five second span of time.

"We're playing one of the frat parties tomorrow night up at campus," he says. "Our bassist in it, I think."

"He is," Dylan agrees. “It’s going to be awful, please don’t come.”

Tyler doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, too busy picking up Dylan’s sub creation and examining it from different angles. “Is that peanut butter? No, don’t tell me, I won’t be able to do it if I think about it.”

Dylan grins, leans over the top of the low counter in front of the cash register. Tyler takes a thoughtful bite after a grimace and Dylan watches, probably way too intently, to map out his entire reaction.

“Shit,” Tyler says. “This is actually amazing.”

Dylan brushes a hand over his shoulder and shrugs in response, which makes Tyler grin around another mouthful at him.

“I’m definitely going to your gig, by the way,” Tyler adds, a few bites later, when Dylan thinks he’s safe.

“Awesome,” Posey says with all the enthusiasm Dylan doesn’t feel. He turns to Dylan right after, oblivious. “Can you make me a special sub now?”

Dylan gets too much pleasure out of saying no because his shift ends in five. He’s too busy not over-analyzing Tyler coming to watch their little garage band play, just because Dylan saw him play baseball; anyone could go see Tyler play baseball. Tyler plays for a real baseball team, kind of, and Dylan’s working on catching up to the undeclared major deadline at school and working at a deli and jamming aimlessly five times a week.

Dylan kicks Posey’s shin on the way to clock out and the sound of Tyler laughing at Posey’s yelp of pain follows Dylan all the way to the timeclock and out the back door.

-

Tyler does, in fact, come to see their gig at the frat house, despite not knowing which frat to go to. There were several having parties, too, on a busy Saturday night; Dylan was torn between hoping he wouldn’t make it and feeling charmed that Tyler might want to come see him play drums so much he’d pop in and out of all the parties until he found the right one.

“He’s totally going to come,” Posey insists for the fifth time, yelling over the growing crowd as they all set up their gear.

Dylan takes a long swig of his first beer instead of responding, tepid cheap stuff from a keg, so pretty much the only beer he knows, despite living off campus with Posey this year and constantly thinking about splurging on craft beer.

Tyler shows up just as Posey is announcing their band; Dylan sees him as he bends up from making final adjustments to his kit, just when he was thinking maybe Tyler wouldn't show up. He's wearing his Mets hat and holding a solo cup and looking out of place among the various kids gathered to hear the band play.

He waves with a drumstick and Tyler grins at him, tipping back for a sip of beer. Dylan watches his throat move for a second before he has to focus on playing; he manages to only look up between songs once they start.

He feels a little high when their set is done, something he’s used to when he gets done playing. Posey hugs him and bounds away and Dylan takes the same sort of initiative, walking over to where Tyler’s standing in the middle of the dispersing crowd.

“Do you want another drink?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting.

“You guys are pretty good,” Tyler says, tipping his empty cup toward Dylan’s chest.

Dylan shrugs non-committally. They aren’t awful and the set was pretty good, the crowd enthusiastic enough, only a few beers into a long night. There’s another band coming to play in a half hour and Dylan figures it’ll be too loud to even enjoy any live music by then.

A frat party isn’t really the best place to have a conversation, Dylan realizes, grabbing two cups of beer from the keg when Tyler follows him. He wants to have a conversation, wants to learn more about Tyler, about why he even bothered coming, why he likes Dylan’s ridiculous subs, why he smiles the way he does.

He drinks his second beer slowly as they both walk through the crowd, pushing out onto the deck.

“This isn’t really my thing,” Tyler says loudly, and Dylan makes a face over a girl’s head at him.

“Do you want to go out on the lawn?”

They pick their way through the crowd, past the pool after the deck. It’s warm out, but most of the party is still inside, so the lawn is relatively quiet where they end up, back at the fence.

“Thanks for coming,” Dylan says, when he can’t think of anything to say. “You really, really didn’t have to just because I went to your game. Anyone can go to those games, you know? I just -- wanted to. That day.”

“I wanted to come,” Tyler says, and it sounds much easier than the way Dylan had gotten around to saying it. “Not the location I would have picked, but.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “I don’t think we’ll ever be the venue-playing type of band. It’s really just for fun.”

"What do you want to do, then?" Tyler asks. 

Dylan leans into the fence with one shoulder and takes another swig. He tries to avoid this question whenever possible. "I don't really know," he says, which is a more honest answer than he gives most people. "I like music. I like making sandwiches, too, I guess, as stupid as that sounds. I'm undeclared still and definitely avoiding my advisor. So."

Tyler hums under his breath, this low sound that Dylan is automatically into. 

"You have time," Tyler says. "Probably."

Dylan knocks their shoulders together jus barely. "Ouch, didn't need the bite of realism at the end."

They stand against the fence for a while, drinking in silence. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, but Dylan feels it under his skin, left over endorphins from playing earlier and something else from glancing at Tyler as he drinks, catching him looking over every other glance.

“Your turn. Tell me something,” Dylan says.

“Anything?”

Dylan shrugs and lets the movement brush their shoulders together again. He’s pretty sure “everything” is not the response Tyler is looking for, even if it’s what Dylan’s thinking.

"I got a pretty bad concussion in one of my senior games in high school," Tyler says, after thinking for a little while. "There were scouts there for a few of the schools I really wanted to go to, but I ended up having to settle for one of the smaller schools because of what happened at that game."

Dylan takes a long drag off the top of his new beer. "That sucks," he says. "Did you --" he trails off, unsure. The party sounds muted and far away, muffled by the trees and the water over the pool.

"Yeah," Tyler says. When he rubs at the back of his neck his elbow knocks into Dylan's shoulder, drags a little across the bare skin near the collar of his t-shirt. "I wanted to go to the majors out of college and the college I went to wasn't really the best for that kind of exposure."

"Could you try for it now?" Dylan asks.

"It doesn't look too appealing, going from a pretty average college team to a pretty average city league."

Dylan leans a little into Tyler's side, taking another sip of his beer. "I think you could do it, if you wanted to. You're really good."

"Yeah?" Tyler says, and he's leaning in, too. His cup is on the fence behind them and his empty hands are hovering above his thighs. "You're good, too."

"What?"

"At sandwiches," Tyler says, with an earnest sort of look that Dylan wants to blame on the two cups of shitty frat beer. "And drums. I’m glad I came to see that. And other things, probably. You'll be able to do whatever you want."

"What a great comparison," Dylan laughs, moving backwards and catching Tyler's weight against his side when he follows.

"You know what I mean," Tyler says.

Dylan shakes his head and it makes him a little dizzy. "Not really."

"You're --" Tyler starts, and then leans all the way into Dylan's space, pressing him closer to the fence. He shakes his head, too, and his eyebrows come together in the middle.

Dylan's holding his breath for no reason he can think of, aware of the points of contact between them: Tyler's knee brushing his, the hand still holding his beer pressed against Tyler's ribs, the two inches of space between their faces. He's being ridiculous, obviously, he's wrapped up in just really liking this guy who eats his stupid disgusting subs and plays baseball really well and sweats in a really attractive way and -- he's being kissed.

Dylan surges forward into Tyler's space at the first press of their lips, doesn't even give it a second to think it might be a mistake from standing too close, not with the way Tyler reaches out and takes his beer from him and throws it somewhere behind them, mumbles, "Was shitty beer, anyway," around Dylan's bottom lip and then keeps kissing him.

Dylan's lips are still slick from his last sip, sliding against Tyler's perfectly as he parts them for Tyler's tongue.

"Disgusting," he agrees, way too late, and Tyler pulls back with a questioning look.

"The beer," Dylan clarifies. "Not this, fuck, no." He pulls Tyler closer, wrapping an arm around his neck and leaning fully against the fence.

"Good," Tyler says, in this gritty low voice that Dylan kind of wants to hear for the rest of his life.

-

Dylan was not very drunk at the frat party. He was very pleasantly buzzed. He was also very pleasantly the kind of person who almost comes in their pants at frat parties.

He and Tyler left separately after breaking apart, some indeterminable amount of time and an enthusiastic holler from Posey running across them later, and Dylan had been buzzed enough that he didn't think to get Tyler's phone number.

In the morning he figured it didn't matter. For the most part, Tyler had been in every time Dylan had a shift at the deli, and he was due in about 15 minutes after waking up with a hard-on and a hangover.

Tyler doesn't come in all day, though. Dylan figures maybe he had something to do while he was off from baseball.

He doesn't come in on Monday, either. Dylan takes Posey's Tuesday shift and trades him for his early Monday the following week. When Tyler doesn't come in then, either, by Wednesday Dylan starts to feel kind of shitty about it.

Maybe he totally misread it, or Tyler was freaked out, or Dylan was too young and working at a little deli with no concrete plans for his future while Tyler wanted to join a major league baseball team. Maybe Dylan would be stuck watching the Mets for the rest of his life with Tyler playing for them, unable to not watch because he'd grown up on the Mets but hating each game.

Maybe he'll die alone and-- "Dylan!" Posey yells, like someone who's maybe been yelling the same thing for a while. "Customers, dude!"

Dylan shakes his head. "On it," he says.

-

Dylan is not looking forward to his Thursday shift after working so many days in a row. Disappointing days.

Posey is there when he comes in, though, and shrugs at him. "I traded with Kelly so I don't have to work the shift during tomorrow's baseball game."

Dylan must make a face at that, even though he's glad at least Posey will keep him entertained today, because Posey comes over and slings an arm around his neck with a squeeze.

"Whatever," Dylan says, but he lets himself be half-hugged for a little longer than he usually would. Posey is really into hugs sometimes.

Dylan goes through the day like usual: cleans, defrosts bread, puts it in the oven, makes sure Posey doesn't cut off any extremities.

He takes his lunch around two and is in the middle of instructing Posey in the art of perfect sub making for his own lunch when Posey freezes up with a slice of sharp cheddar in his hand and looks over Dylan's shoulder at something.

Dylan knows who it is before Posey even makes unsubtle jerky eye-motions at him.

“Hey,” Tyler says from behind where Dylan is standing.

Tyler, who Dylan has been having a quarter-life crisis about for four days in a row now. He kind of wants to be mad, but mostly his face gets warm and he has to count himself into turning around.

“Hi,” Dylan says, trying for bland and managing it pretty well.

Tyler rocks back a little on his heels and Dylan watches the shift in his uniform as it bunches over his thighs, distracting.

“So, I kind of made a mistake,” Tyler starts.

Dylan wants to fall into the floor a little. At least Tyler could’ve taken him aside, not let Posey be audience to his pain. “Oh,” he says.

“I completely forgot to get your number the other night,” Tyler says. “And in the morning I had to leave for our semi-final away games, and this deli does not have a phone number listed anywhere, physically or digitally.”

“The owner is pretty old school,” Dylan says, rolling his shoulders back. “We don’t even have a phone here.”

“A work phone would have been helpful,” Tyler says. “I think I almost got kicked off the bus forty miles out because I was, possibly, talking about you too much.”

“Aww,” Posey calls from behind the counter. “This is great!”

Dylan shakes his head. “Go away, dude,” he says.

“I’m eating your sub, then,” Posey says, but, miraculously, wanders off into the back room. Probably with Dylan's half-made sub, but Dylan doesn't want to turn around to check, and anyway, small miracles.

“I have to run in a few minutes, there’s an afternoon game for the kids, but it’s the first chance I’ve had to stop in after we got back and I had to,” Tyler says.

“I was kind of freaking out,” Dylan says, which is embarrassing, but true.

“I really like you,” Tyler says, shrugging with his whole body, leaning closer to Dylan.

“Wow,” Dylan says, because it comes out automatically. He didn’t need it spelled out, after the other little speech, but it’s really, really nice to hear. If not a little disarming because Dylan is, well, Dylan, and Tyler is standing in front of him, looking kind of earnest about this whole thing, and Dylan really, really likes him.

“Do you want to grab dinner with me after the game, maybe?” Tyler says.

Dylan pretends to think on it for a few moments, uses the time to figure out how to arrange his face into something less ridiculous than he feels. "What if you go on to the majors? Would I be your baseball wife? Headline scandal?" Dylan asks.

Tyler stares at him for a few second before tipping his head back into a bark of a laugh. "Wow," he says, "you just jumped way past our the theoretical first date, there."

Dylan kind of wants to roll underneath the counter. "I jump. That's a thing I do. But, for the record, that was a yes if you still want to. So, not theoretical."

"If you become some super famous drummer, can I be your number one groupie?"

Dylan rolls his eyes. "I don't want to become a famous drummer," he says. "Drummers are replaceable, anyway."

"Well," Tyler starts, pausing to think. He's absently rubbing at his elbow, right below his uniform sleeve, and Dylan can't look away. He basically has permission to look, anyway. "If you open a deli and it's the most popular deli because of your sandwich skills, can I be your number one customer?"

Dylan laughs, shakes his head, feels warm with it. "You're really bad at this game," he says.

Tyler hangs his head. "I know," he says. "It's pitiful. I have to go to play the actual game I am good at, though, so."

"I'll see you afterwards?" Dylan asks.

"I'd like that," Tyler says.

"Good luck," Dylan says, when Tyler turns to leave, sub tucked under one arm. He likes saying that, hasn't actually gotten to before.

-

Dylan meets Tyler in the stands after his shift, about a half hour after the end of the afternoon game. Tyler’s dressed down and carrying two chili dogs, meets him halfway from the bottom of the bleachers and gestures for Dylan to sit.

“This isn’t my dinner offering,” Tyler says, first. He hands Dylan a chili dog. “I just want to you see how awful these things are.”

“How considerate,” Dylan says, but he’s pretty sure short of instant food poisoning nothing could ruin this official date thing they’ve got going on.

"So," Tyler says, leaning back after his last bite of chili dog a few minutes of silence later. "What's the verdict?"

Dylan very carefully shoves the last bite of his own into his mouth, poking the end of the bun in there, too, and swallows. Tyler makes a face at him, and Dylan can't seem to care; if this is going to be a thing, like a real thing, now, Tyler should know what he's signing up for.

"Disgusting," he says, once he can mostly open his mouth again. "Seriously, that was probably like twelve health code violations in one bun. I might die of tetanus."

"And you didn't believe me," Tyler says, slinging a heavy arm over Dylan's shoulder.

Dylan leans into his side because he can and makes a little show of turning to the side to wipe his mouth so his brief manic grin isn't noticeable. "I thought you were just making up some gross chili dogs because you needed an excuse to come see me at the deli," he says with a grin.

"I did stomach these for half a season, I could've kept doing it," Tyler says. It's the most pleasing non-answer Dylan has ever heard.

"So basically I saved your life over here. Who knows where you'd be if you kept eating those things, right?"

Tyler snorts, nudges Dylan's ankle with his cleat until their feet knock together.

They sit like that for a few quiet minutes, looking out over the diamond; one of the maintenance guys comes out the far end, dragging the line marker and Dylan watches his progress.

"I'm going to take you out for a real dinner now," Tyler says.

Dylan clutches his stomach with the arm not pinned down by Tyler's weight, groaning. “Was this your way of making sure you had a cheap date?”

Tyler laughs, head tipped back. “No, not at all,” he says. “You can even pick where we go.”

“Awesome,” Dylan says, and means it. “Let’s get going.”

"One thing first, though," Tyler says, turning his body in and looking at Dylan intently.

Dylan feels his face flush without his permission, hoping for a sober revisit to their awesome first kiss.

Tyler leans in and stops just short of Dylan's face. "You seriously need to get the pitching and catching joke out of the way before dinner, I've seen it on your face since the first time we met," he says, with a little smirk.

Dylan shoves at his chest and Tyler barely moves, just shrugs at him and keeps his little half-grin.

"That joke is timeless and super appropriate in this situation," Dylan defends, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to save it and spring it on you when you least expect it.” He hauls Tyler forward by the collar of his shirt and kisses him instead, turning Tyler's open-mouthed laugh into a groan instead and feeling pretty pleased with himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Mistfarer, I hope you enjoyed this! I saw you really got into hockey recently after assignments went out and was totally going to write a TW cast hockey AU, but then realized I don't know anything about hockey. I really only know marginally more about baseball, but it worked itself out. I needlessly panicked over this, but it was actually really fun to write. Thank you to J for helping me through the aforementioned panicking. The title is unashamedly taken from One Direction. Happy Holidays!


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